


Flights of Fancy

by abundanceofvowels



Series: Potterlock Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Friendship, M/M, Potterlock, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundanceofvowels/pseuds/abundanceofvowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gryffindor 3rd year John Watson obviously has a passion for Quidditch, so what's keeping him from the game?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flights of Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> A little something that was biting at my brain, just begging to be written. There will be more! I’m not sure when, but rest assured Potterlock has settled in nicely in my headspace and further drabbles will make an appearance when the muse and mood strike.

     Breakfast in the Great Hall on Sundays was often missed. The majority of students favored sleeping in over a hot meal and eventually rolled out of their dorms later in the day for lunch. Sherlock never missed breakfast, especially on Sundays. He made it to the Great Hall just as the food was being served, placed himself in the corner of the room with a book, and settled in to watch. About an hour after he had picked away at his pastry and pumpkin juice, the post arrived. So did John Watson.  
      The Gryffindor 3rd year never missed the post. He shuffled in, a very slight limp almost invisible in his grogginess, shirt untucked and light brown hair sticking up in all directions from his scalp, catching the rising daylight through the tall windows. He yawned and gracelessly sat down at his usual spot and scratched at the back of his neck. When a plate of oozing, sugary tarts materialized in front of him, John’s yawn broke into a grin and he took one in each hand. Sherlock smirked at the way he seemed torn over which one to eat first. John was saved from his dilemma that morning by a handful of owls arriving with the Prophet. He put the two tarts down in front of him, wiped his hands on his trousers and dug a knut from his pocket to put in the owl’s pouch as he removed its rolled up paper parcel. As the owl flew away, Sherlock sorted through the actions he knew John would go through next.  
      First, he’d scan the front page, looking for anything of interest. Then, he’d turn straight to the sports section. John’s eyes would race over the latest news about the world’s Quidditch standings. About halfway through, he’d be reminded of his appetite and reach for a tart, comically missing his mouth the first try because he refused to take his eyes off the pages in front of him. He’d finish that tart, then the next (this time with much better accuracy) and then browse through the rest of the paper as the remainder of the students started filing in for their meals. Within minutes, John always had found someone to share friendly conversation. He was popular due to his warm, approachable personality. Anyone could tell that from mere observation. John Watson’s was a face that said “I’m not likely to judge you and am willing to talk about pretty much anything, so what are you waiting for?”.

     Sherlock stuffed the final bite of the pastry into his mouth, stood, and walked out of the hall, unnoticed. He wandered the grounds, book in hand, before settling by a tree that had a good view of the lake. He’d gotten about three chapters into “1001 Extracts and Their Poisonous Uses” before he noticed a familiar form walking to his right, toward the Quidditch pitch. Will today be the day, John? John had the athletic build of a promising Beater or Keeper; sturdy but swift. He’d be a good addition to his house team, Sherlock fathomed.  
      Turning over the corner of the page to keep his place, Sherlock got up quietly and followed some ways behind the older student. John was walking with excitement and his breath was coming in pants by the time he reached the edge of the pitch and started to climb the stairs to the bleachers to watch a few members from various houses playing mock games when there was no official match scheduled. Sherlock quickly made his way around to a stairway he knew would get him there faster than the stockier boy. He sat down on one of the rows of bleachers, regulated his elevated breathing and heart rate and listened as John’s footsteps on the aging wood drew nearer.

     “Oh! Sorry, didn’t know anyone was up here already. I’ll just-” John huffed, out of breath and turned to go back down the stairs.

     “No.” Sherlock’s eyes were still scanning the page in front of him.

     “What?”

     “We can share. Surely I don’t need an entire set of bleachers to myself.”

     “Oh, right. Yeah. Okay.” John inhaled deeply a few times, trying to catch his breath and shuffled awkwardly for a few moments, trying to decide where to sit.

     Sherlock turned more fully toward John, holding out a hand.

     “Hello.”

     Immediately, John was more in his element. Conversation, greetings, he could do this. He grasped Sherlock’s hand and shook it a few times.

     “Hi, John Watson. Weren’t you in the Great Hall earlier?”

     Sherlock was caught off guard for a moment and blinked a few times at John’s grinning face before realizing that he was still holding onto the hand that had accepted his offered one. John was more observant than he’d given him credit for. He quickly let go and cleared his throat.

     “Yes.”

     “Didn’t expect you to be out here, though. You don’t seem like the Quidditch type.”

     “I’m not, usually. It has its rare moments.”

     “Fair enough- ooh ouch!” One of the Hufflepuff Beaters zooming above the pitch had just received a nasty hit to the forearm and was now cradling it to her chest. “That’s fractured, that is.”

     A Ravenclaw playing as Chaser was at her side in moments.

     “That could have been easily avoided.” Sherlock stated, eyes following the trajectory of the players as they moved through the air. “If she had any mind to pay attention to the players in her blind spot. How can you tell it’s fractured from this distance?”

     John glanced down at the book in Sherlock’s lap, head turning to read the title running across the top margin of the left page.

     “I’ve got hobbies, too.”

     The boy that was acting as Seeker seemed to be struggling to find the Snitch that had been flitting about the flags above the Slytherin bleachers. It had since moved on to somewhere about halfway down the structure and was zipping back and forth, blending in with the gold checks on the adjacent Gryffindor seats.

     “What an idiot. If he’d only observe. He’s supposed to be Seeker for gods’ sake- DOWN THERE, TO YOUR LEFT!”

     The pair watched as the boy nearly fell of his broom at Sherlock’s raised voice before realizing what had been said and flying off to retrieve the elusive, winged ball.

     “You managed to keep track of the Snitch while talking to me, reading that book, and watching all the other players?” John was staring at Sherlock with one of his eyebrows raised to the point of nearly meeting his hairline.

     “Yes?”

     “That’s amazing!”

     Sherlock suppressed a laugh. It came out as a huff through his nose. “That’s not what people usually say.”

     “Well, they’re wrong. It really is; brilliant, I mean. Why don’t you try out for Ravenclaw’s Seeker? I bet you’d be great.”

     Sherlock smirked, closed his book, stood, and started to walk away. He paused and spoke over his shoulder before descending the stairs.

     “I could ask you a similar question. You’ve obviously got the passion for it, and likely the skill. So, what’s keeping you from trying out instead of wasting your time watching these mock matches? Goodbye, John Watson.”

     Sherlock left the boy who had suddenly grown solemn. Had he struck a nerve? If he had, he’d likely ruined his chances of friendship with the only person that had ever kept his interest for an extended period of time. Fantastic. He reached the bottom of the stairs and was making his way through the grass back toward the castle when he heard the familiar padding of feet behind him. The limp was gone.

     “Wait! I didn’t get your name!”

     Sherlock slowed his pace and turned toward the boy once he felt John catch up with him.

     “The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

     John grasped Sherlock’s hand for the second time where it was resting by his side and shook it a few times, smiling widely.

     “Nice to meet you, properly. Where are you headed?”

     “The library.” Sherlock turned back toward the castle and quickened his pace. John kept up.

     “Can I join?”

     “Wha- really?”

     “Yeah, I don’t have much else to do.”

     Sherlock spent the next five seconds considering the pros and cons of taking this aggravatingly friendly young man with him.

     “If you promise not to ask too many questions while I’m reading.”

     John let out a laugh that was far too jovial and uplifting for its own good.

     “Won’t even know I’m there, on my honor.” John raised his left hand and drew a cross over his heart.

      Sherlock hoped he was lying.


End file.
